


In Search of a Crescendo

by comebacknow



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Can be romantic or platonic newtmas tbh, Canon Compliant, Death, Depression, Descriptions of depression, Descriptions of suicide, Newt's death, Newt's jump, Suicide, description of suicide attempts, descriptions of suicide attemps, post tdc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comebacknow/pseuds/comebacknow
Summary: Shuffled from room to room in a building Newt has never seen before, he's asked to provide details of the moments that lead to him being here in order to determine where he will be placed for the remainder of time.  Set after his death in The Death Cure.





	In Search of a Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:
> 
> \- Descriptions of suicide  
> \- Mentions of suicide  
> \- Discussion of character death  
> \- Discussions of suicide attempts  
> \- Dealings with depression  
> \- Heavy focus on Newt's suicide attempt and death
> 
>  
> 
> *This is a piece written for 250 Day

* * *

 

 

 

“Please state your name.”

 

The gentleman speaking to him has a long scar is driven across the left side of his face from the corner of his eye down to the back of his jaw.  There’s another scar cut deep and ragged across his neck. 

 

“Kid,” The Gentleman says again.  “This goes a lot faster if you cooperate and answer quickly. Please state your name.”

 

When he answers, his voice rasps around the name.

 

“One more time, please,” The Gentleman insists.  “Clearer for the recorder.”  He gestures with a crooked finger to the small black device with a blinking red light.

 

He clears his throat.  “Newt.”

 

“Newt?” The Gentleman repeats, a brow raising skeptically.  “Last name or first?”

 

“I… I don’t have a last name.”

 

This seems to answer the Gentleman’s question just fine, and Newt quickly realizes that he’s not the only one who’s been brought here.

 

“Thank you.” The Gentleman scribbles something onto a memo pad.  “Cause of death?”

 

Newt’s lashes flicker in his vision.

 

The Gentleman eyes him.  “Flare,” he determines.

 

“Myself,” Newt rasps out.  He clears his throat again.  His voice is weak, but somehow the word comes out stronger.  “Myself.”

 

“Suicide,” The Gentleman amends.

 

“No.”

 

The Gentleman’s eyes flick up to Newt’s.

 

“No,” he shakes his head.  “It wasn’t suicide.  It was an accident.”

 

The Gentleman watches him for another moment before he puts the memo pad onto the table. “You killed yourself on accident?”

 

“Ye…” Newt’s gaze lowers to his hands, resting on the cool metal in front of him.  Black blood stains his hand like charcoal.  Different forms of art, he supposes. 

 

“Yes or no?” The Gentleman repeats.  “Did you kill yourself on accident?”

 

 _Did I?_ ….

 

“Kid – Newt – like I said: the faster we get through this, the sooner I can get you onto the next stage.”

 

 Newt looks up at him.  “I think it was an accident.”

 

The Gentleman watches him for another moment and then leans back in his chair, hands braced on the thin metal armrests.  “Newt, did someone assist you in this suicide?”

 

“It wasn’t suicide,” Newt insists.

 

“So, it was an accident.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The Gentleman sighs.  “Did someone assist you?”

 

“No,” Newt looks up at him.  “No, he didn’t.”

 

This sparks something in The Gentleman’s eyes and they widen a bit more, the façade of Official slipping just slightly.  “ _He?_ ”  The Gentleman’s gaze shifts just past Newt.  “There was someone else there?”

 

Newt doesn’t bother with the question.  He turns in his seat and finds the long mirror on the wall.

 

Part of him knows what this is.  Part of him distantly recalls the technology of a two-way mirror.  Part of him recognizes that there are people on the other side of that wall – watching him.  Just like there have always been.

 

But the other part of him – the weaker part of him – loses all of that as his gaze lands on the sight in front of him.

 

“Kid, sit down,” The Gentleman says somewhere in the distance.

 

But Newt doesn’t register that.  His leg drags a bit behind him as he moves toward the reflection. 

 

_This is what he saw…_

 

“Newt, please have a seat.”

 

_This is what he tried to save…_

A button dings somewhere to his left and he sees a red light in his peripheral, but he doesn’t pull away.  He doesn’t turn from the black lines.

 

“Thank god,” The Gentleman breathes somewhere behind him.  “I mean he’s not as bad as Case 232 but Jesus fuck. I can only deal with this for so long.”

 

“Really? Tact,” a woman’s voice says.  “Get out.”

 

“There coffee left?”

 

“Seriously?”

 

There’s a sigh and shuffling.  In the reflection, Newt can see The Gentleman stand; the chair scrapes against the marble floor as he pushes it crookedly into the table.

 

“Newt?”  The Woman’s voice is quiet.  “Newt, can you hear me?”

 

He nods.

 

“Can I ask you to come with me?  We have a room ready for you and someone who wants to talk to you.”

 

Newt turns to her now.  His brow furrows as he looks down at her.  “Someone who wants to talk to me?” he repeats.

 

She nods up at him, her black eyes match his – veins running along in cragged patterns.  “Nothing bad, don’t worry.  It’s just someone to figure out where you will go from here.”

 

Something fades in Newt’s chest.  Another Official.

 

“Will you walk with me?” she asks.

 

But Newt knows that’s not the real question here.  He knows she’s asking if he’ll follow her, if he’ll cooperate, comply.  If he’ll come without resistance.

 

And so he goes.

 

 

***

 

 

“Newt,” the Woman says as she opens the door and gestures inside.  “This is Dr. Hastings.  She’s here to talk with you and help you decide where you want to go.”

 

Newt’s eyes rove the maroon walls, the beige floor.  There’s a white throw rug and his gaze zeroes in on a tan stain on the fringes.

 

“Coffee,” Dr. Hastings supplies as she walks toward him with a thin hand outstretched.  “Bit of a spill earlier.”

 

Newt’s eyes slide to catch her gaze.  There are no scars or lines on her face and he vaguely wonders where they might be hidden.

 

“I’m Dr. Hastings,” she says in a clear voice.  “You must be Newt.”

 

“I must be,” he repeats.

 

She waits another moment before she lowers her hand.

 

Newt’s gaze drops to where it rests at her side and then flicks back up.  “My hands have blood on them.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” she gestures to her left.  “Would you like to wash it off?”

 

Newt wonders if it’s really an option; if he’d really be able to wash away the stain of what he’s done.

 

“You don’t have to,” Dr. Hastings continues.  “Some people prefer to keep it with them.”

 

Newt swallows.  “Can I decide later?”

 

“Of course,” she smiles – wide across dark red lips.  “Please, why don’t you have a seat?”  She turns to the Woman behind him.  “That’ll be all, thank you.”  
  


The door closes somewhere behind Newt, but his focus finds the three chairs stationed in front of her desk.

 

There’s a brown leather one, brass buttons pushed into the curled armrests.

 

An overstuffed red chair with a white feathered pillow.

 

And a hard-backed black metal chair, a polka-dotted cushion tied to it.

 

“Which chair?” Newt asks.

 

“Any one,” she answers cheerfully as she walks behind her desk and sits in her own.

 

“Is this a test?” Newt asks.

 

She looks at him for a moment.  “Is that how it feels?”

  
Her looks at her for a moment.  “Is it supposed to?”

 

There’s a moment here where they watch each other.  Finally, her mouth curls into a small smile.  “It’s not a test.  You can sit wherever you’d like.”

 

Newt waits a beat and then slowly backs away from the desk.  The back of his boot hits the wall and he leans back against it. Folds his arms.  “Here’s fine.”

 

She presses her lips together, a small laugh escaping through her exhale.  “There’s fine.”  She pulls out a folder and places it on the desk.  Opens a silver laptop that the light ricochets off of.  It cuts across his vision for a brief second and it’s in that second that he forgets where he is.

 

It’s the scent of latex and something lemon that brings him back to the room. 

 

“So,” she begins, “Newt.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see you came here quite abruptly.”

 

He blinks.

 

“It says you were only in transition for six minutes.”

 

“Transition?”

 

“From Life to Death.”

 

Newt blinks.

 

Six minutes.

 

“It says here it was rules as assisted suic-”

 

“No.”

 

She looks up at him from her desk.  “No?”

 

“No.”

 

“You weren’t stabbed with the help of someone else?”

 

“He didn’t do anything.”

 

“He?” she asks.

 

Newt’s gaze drops a fraction lower.

 

She folds her arms on the surface of the desk.  “How many people were present at your time of death?”

 

Newt’s vision flashes in blue lights, damp concrete.  Sea salt and light brown eyes.

 

“Two,” he answers.  Though he’s suddenly unsure.

 

“Two,” she repeats.

 

“Three, maybe.”

 

“Three?”

 

Newt blinks.  He was there, obviously.  He knows Thomas was.  He saw Thomas. 

 

But, there was someone else.

 

Or something else.

 

“Newt?”

 

He looks up at her.  “Two.”

 

“Two,” she repeats.

 

“Two.”

 

“May I ask who the other person was?”

 

“He was my friend,” he rasps.

 

“Does your friend have a name?”

 

Newt watches her carefully for a moment.  “Yes,” he answers.

 

“Will you tell me his name?”

 

Newt blinks.  “No.”

 

“Okay,” she nods.  “That’s okay.”  She flips open the manila folder and the shuffle of papers swims around his ears.  “Newt, do you know how old you are?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay,” she pulls out a few sheets and settles them in front of her.  He watches her hand reach forward and sift through a cup of pens and pencils.  She chooses one, clicks it, and rests the heel of her hand against the edge of the middle paper.  “It says here you suffered from the Flare.”

 

“Good thing it says that,” Newt monotones. “How would we have ever known otherwise?”

 

She looks up at him sharply, but her mouth curves into a smile.  “That’s funny.”  
  


Newt blinks.

 

“Newt, can I ask you what the last thing you remember clearly is?”

 

_Thomas._

“How clearly?” he asks.

 

“The last moment you are able to piece together fully.  The last scene you can describe for me?”

 

Newt shuffles through his few memories.  “I remember gunshots.”

 

She nods.

 

“A car screeched somewhere,” he shakes his head.  “Maybe a truck.”

 

“Clearly,” she repeats, quietly.

 

Newt swallows.  “I remember a lift.”

 

“A lift,” she repeats.

 

“I was with three other people.  In a suit with a mask.”

 

“Why were you wearing a mask?”

 

“Safety reasons.”

 

“Safety from what?”

 

Newt considers this.  “People.”

 

Something changes in her gaze.  “Do you think people are dangerous?”

 

“Some of them.”

 

“Do you think we’re dangerous?”

 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

 

She shifts in her seat and folds her hands on the table, pen sticking awkwardly out between her fingers.  “Newt,” she begins.  “Do you think you’re dangerous?”

 

Newt is suddenly very aware of the lack of anything running through his body.  There’s no heartbeat to count by, there are no nerves echoing through him, nothing coursing through his blood.  He tries to inhale and is surprised to find he can.  He exhales.  “Do I have to breathe here?”

 

Dr. Hastings smiles from her desk.  “You don’t have to, but you can.  Some people find it calming and comforting.”

 

Newt pauses. 

 

He wonders how much time passes between the exhale and when he finally looks back up at her.  “I don’t.”

 

“That’s okay,” she answers.  “Some people don’t like to.”

 

“No, not the breathing,” he shakes his head.  “You asked if I think I’m dangerous.”

 

“You don’t,” she repeats and nods.  “That’s good.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“You’re not dangerous, Newt.  Not unless you want to be.”

 

His eyes tighten.  “I was dangerous though.  But I didn’t want to be.  So how is that right?”

 

Dr. Hastings shifts in her seat.  “The Flare is its own danger.  _You_ weren’t dangerous.  The Flare was.”

 

“But I was the one who attacked him.”

 

Her head tilts up the slightest bit.  “The other boy who was with you when you died?”  
  


Newt inhales.  He exhales.

 

“Did he kill you, Newt?”

 

“No.”

 

“But you said earlier it wasn’t a suicide.”

 

“No,” he repeats.  “I don’t… I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

She nods.  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

 

His brows furrow.

 

“There was a time that your name flashed on our records.  Two and a half years ago.”

 

Newt blinks slowly.

 

“Do you know what I’m talking about?”

 

It’s another moment, another flicker of blinks before he answers. “Yes.”

 

She nods at him.  “Can you talk to me a bit about that?”

 

“Why?”

 

“It might help me understand you a bit more.”

 

“What’s there to understand?”

 

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

 

Newt’s eyes shift down.  His vision settles on the coffee stain, but it slowly turns dark red against the concrete below him.  “It was a suicide attempt.”

 

There’s no answer.

 

He continues. “I didn’t want to be there anymore.  Everything got… louder.  The higher I climbed.  It was… It was blaring but it wasn’t clear.  You know, when it’s… muffled, muted.  But it’s still so loud and even though it hurts – you want to focus on it.  Part of you just wishes it would get louder.  That it would cut through you so deep it blinds you and all that’s left is the sound. So.. so you shut your eyes and hope that does the trick, you hope that will work.  But deep down you know that you will still open your eyes.  You’ll still see the world around you and that sound will still not be loud enough.  And that’s when you realize it.  That’s when you realize that the only way to make it louder is to make sure you don’t open your eyes again.”

 

“You wanted to blind yourself?” Dr. Hasting’s voice comes distant, ruffles through the ivy next to him as he grips onto more cool stone in the shadows.

 

He strains his arm as he pulls himself up.  “No,” he grits out, breath sliding across the cracks in front of him.  “That would have hurt.  I didn’t want pain.  I didn’t want to hurt myself.  I just wanted to see how loud the noise could be.”

 

“What about this noise captured you?”

 

He lifts his leg and finds a foothold.  He makes sure it’s secure before he looks up.  There’s a crack in the stone above him large enough for his hands to grip, and just next to that is a strand of ivy.  He’d have to be quick about it.  “It blocked out the silence.”

 

He settles his fingers against the stone, curls them against it and pulls.  His leg pushes below him and he shoots his free arm up, reaching. 

 

The ivy is damp in his hand, but he swiftly curls it around his wrist and grips it tightly.  He pulls.  It holds.

 

“You thought jumping wouldn’t give you more silence?” she asks from the top of the wall, looking down at him.  Her pen clicks on the stone as she writes another note.

 

“No,” he strains as he pulls on the ivy.  He braces his legs against the stone and grabs the cord with his left hand as well.  “I thought it’d give me a crescendo.”

 

“Did it?”

 

Newt swallows.  He pulls on the ivy.

 

Once.

 

He steps up.

 

Pulls again.

 

Steps again.

 

His fingers find the surface of the stone.  The top of the wall. 

 

Dr. Hastings sits cross-legged, watching him pull himself up.

 

His fingers struggle against the concrete and his nails scrape painfully against it.  He feels the ivy bite into his right hand as he pulls himself further up. 

 

He braces his right leg on the stone and pushes.

 

His ribs crash into the edge of the wall as his right arm reaches across it.

 

He thinks he might slip, but he pulls himself up.  Pushes with burning muscle, Runner boots scraping bits of excess debris from the stone.

 

His eyes shift to where the pen continues to scratch into the concrete.  One word over and over and over.

 

_Wait._

He looks up at her as his boot slips a bit against the stone.  He wants to ask her for help.  He wants to ask her to pull him up. 

 

But he’s done this once before.

 

He can do it again.

 

His arms strain as he pushes up, exhaling shakily through his teeth and then he’s collapsing on the surface of it.  He breathes, panting, ribs aching where they press into the cool surface.

 

_Wait._

He pushes himself up and turns.  His boots scrape a he stands, there’s debris on them and they’re no longer just black.  One of his laces is undone.  He considers tying it, but the muffled chimes in his head tell him he doesn’t need to.  They’ll be unlaced eventually anyway.

 

He looks down and it’s a vertigo that he’s felt no matter how close or far from the ground he was.  It’s the same vertigo.  Only now, he can hear the sound.  He can hear it piercing through him.

 

 _It’s happening,_ he thinks.  _I’ll finally be able to hear it clearly._

He looks at Dr. Hastings.  He doesn’t want her to see.  That’s why he came out here so early. 

 

Still, she scratches into the stone.

 

_Wait._

_Wait._

_Wait._

But one day the sound might stop.

 

He doesn’t want to miss it.

 

The air rushes past him.  He keeps his eyes open.  Tell himself it’s the last time he’ll have to.

 

 

***

 

 

“No,” he answers.

 

Dr. Hastings nods and sits back in her chair.  “What did it give you?”

 

“A reminder.”

 

“Your leg, you mean?”

 

He tilts his head.  “That too.”

 

“What else?” she asks, brows furrowed.

 

He slowly shakes his head.  “The sound never returned.”

 

“The sound you chased after?”

 

He nods.

 

“Do you consider that a good thing?”

 

“I never decided.”

  
Dr. Hastings sits forward again in her seat.  Her eyes briefly rove the memo pad in front of her.  “What changed?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“What made you stop chasing that sound?”

 

He shakes his head.  “It was gone.  There was nothing to chase anymore.”

 

She folds her hands on the desk.  “And you never found it again?” she presses.

 

He almost says no.  He almost tells her it never came back, but then he remembers.  “It returned once.”

 

“Once?” she asks.

 

“A few…” he realizes he doesn’t know how long it’s been.

 

“Recently?” she offers.

 

“Recently,” he accepts.

 

“Was this just before you arrived here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And did you go after it again?”

 

His eyes flutter in a series of blinks again.  “No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

He furrows his brow.  “It… it didn’t sound the same.”

 

“It changed?”

 

“Or maybe I did.”

 

“You wanted the silence?” she asks.

 

“No,” he shakes his head.  He looks back up at her and her light brown eyes narrow only slightly, questioning.  He inhales.  He exhales.  “I found something louder.”

 

“Louder than the noise?”

 

“Louder than everything.”

 

“Can I ask what that was?”

 

He feels his eyes tighten.  “No.”

 

Her eyes soften, but she nods.  “Okay, I won’t.”

 

“Earlier,” he says suddenly, “you said you were talking to me to determine where I’ll go.”

 

She nods.

 

“What did you mean?”

 

“After we’re done here, we’ll find a place for you to stay.”

 

“For how long?”

 

She only looks at him.

 

His eyes lower slowly.

 

“Newt, can I ask what you heard right before you came here?”

 

He swallows.  “I… I think it was my name.”

 

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

 

He looks back up at her, but she doesn’t elaborate.  “I heard it.”

 

“The sound?”

 

“All of them.”

 

Her eyes narrow and something painful flashes in them.  The pen scratches something into the memo pad quickly.

 

It’s underlined.

 

“What did you write?” he asks.

 

“Don’t worry about that.”

 

He slowly steps forward off of the wall.  He swallows.  When he speaks, his voice is a shaken thing.  “What did you write?”

 

Her eyes glass only slightly, but she smiles.  “It’s okay, Newt.”

 

His chest aches and his hand finds its way to the center of the pain, just above a scar he hasn’t seen.  “I didn’t want to.”

 

“I know,” she nods.

 

“I didn’t have a choice.”

 

“I know,” she nods.  She’s standing now and walking around the desk.

 

But when he falls, she doesn’t catch him.  His knees bang into the marble with a weight that he can’t register.  He looks up at her.  “I was going to kill him.”

 

“It’s okay,” she slowly kneels onto the carpet, a small distance away.

 

“It wasn’t like last time,” he shakes his head.  “It wasn’t like the wall.”

 

She nods.

 

“I didn’t do it for myself,” he shakes his head.  “It wasn’t for me.  You have to understand that.”

 

“I do, Newt.”

 

His hand shakes against his chest.  “Does he?”

 

Her smile is broken, but trying.  “I don’t know.”

 

His gaze drops to the floor and so does his hand.  He sits back on his heels.  “I can still hear it.”

 

“The sound?” she asks.

 

He nods.

 

“From the wall?”

 

“No,” he shakes his head.

 

“The other one?”

 

He nods.

 

“Newt,” she begins.  “Did you get your crescendo?”

 

He nods, but it takes a moment for him to speak.  “I did,” he says, barely audible.

 

“Can you tell me where it came from?”

 

He inhales.

 

He exhales.

 

“It came from him.”

 


End file.
